George Melville looked up in some surprise from his book, and said:
"You may show him up."

"It must be Herbert," he thought.

But when the door was opened, and the visitor shown in, Mr. Melville
found it was an older person than Herbert. Eben, for it was he,
distorted his mean features into what he regarded as a pleasant
smile, and, without waiting to receive a welcome, came forward with
extended hand.

"I believe you are Mr. Melville," he said, inquiringly.

"Yes, that is my name," said Melville, looking puzzled; "I don't
remember you. Have I met you before?"

"You saw me in father's store, very likely," said Eben. "I am Eben
Graham, son of Ebenezer Graham, the postmaster."

"Indeed! That accounts for your face looking familiar. You resemble
your father very closely."

"I'm a chip off the old block with modern improvements," said Eben,
smirking. "Father's always lived in the country, and he ain't very
stylish. I've been employed in Boston for a couple of years past,
and got a little city polish."

"You don't show much of it," thought Melville, but he refrained from
saying so.